


I Know Ash!

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Pants, Protective John, Warning for body fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: John and Sherlock have been at a pub quiz, alcohol has been consumed. A walk home is interrupted by discussions about pants and a policeman. A love confession is made and a cabbie becomes interested in upholstery cleaning costs.





	I Know Ash!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been away on holiday and whilst I didn't have much time I did write this little one shot. I hope you enjoy :-)

John and Sherlock tumble out of the pub and stumble away. John is slightly tipsy but Sherlock, having come off worst in a quiz where he had agreed to have a drink for every wrong answer, is completely smashed.

“I know ash!” Sherlock declares at the top of his voice.

“I know you do.” John says calmly trying to placate his friend.

“And how to tell a man's occupation from his hands. And where he’s spent the day from his trousers.” Sherlock continues gesturing wildly.

“I know.”

“That quiz was stupid!”

“Hmm.”

“It was John!” Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and he pouts.

“Ok. Why was it stupid?”

“Who cares what that Andy Murray fellow gets up to? And how was I to know the Queen was in some sort of music group?”

John turns away so Sherlock won't see him giggle.

Sherlock continues proudly, “I did know that Daniel Craig was James Bond.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“That's your fault.” Sherlock points accusingly with a wavering finger vaguely in John’s direction. “Filling my brain with useless trivia. What will you make me learn next? The names of the Spice Girls?”

John's eyebrows raise. “I don’t know that myself. I'm just impressed you know the Spice Girls existed.”

“It was their fault, the girls.”

“The Spice Girls?”

“No! No. The girls. The ones in Cambridge.”

John chuckles, “How did they force you to learn the existence of the Spice Girls?”

“There was a Chemistry social. Awful, horrid. The girls there, made me go to a karaoke bar.”

A flash of emotion shoots through John, something proprietary that he uses his tipsiness to excuse away, “Were they pretty, these girls?”

Sherlock pulls a face, scrunching his nose up. “I, they were thin, there was hair. Probably boobs. Yes, lots of boobs, only two each, but lots of girls, so lots of boobs. So, I ‘spose they were pretty?”

“Did you like the boobs then.”

Sherlock looks absolutely disgusted, “Urgh, no, but they were just there, lots of them, couldn’t get away from them staring at me.”

John giggles again.

“How did they make you go with them?”

“Said they'd flirt at me every lecture if I wouldn’t be their gay friend and go out with them once. I HAD to do it.”

John is not drunk enough to let this admission slip past unnoticed, “You're gay??”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and as a result stumbles against a wall, “Do you know how much product I put in my hair? And I've got a red bit on my coat.”

“What?! That red bit is you being gay?”

“Obviously.”

John shakes his head in disbelief.

“And I've got gay underwear.”

“Never seen your underwear.”

“Oh. Well. It's gay.” A stray thought comes to him and he raises a finger to get John's attention, “Not thongs. Thongs aren’t gay. Well some gay men wear thongs, so their thongs are gay, but mine aren't. I don’t mean my thongs aren’t gay, I mean my underwear aren't thongs. Apart from my two thongs. Those are thongs. But they don’t count because I only wear them if I run out of pants. So there.” He nods, lecture over.

John scrunches up his face as he attempts to follow Sherlock's logic, but then shakes his head in defeat, “Well, I di’n’t know you were gay.”

“Why else did Hudders, Angelo, Mycroft and Donovan ask you about our relationship?”

“I dunno. So you're gay?” John says being rather fixated on this point.

“Yeah. Why did the quiz man say I couldn’t come back?”

“Prob’ly cos you kept shouting about how pointless it was and how they should ask questions about atomic numbers and decomposition of corpses.”

“He needs to know what he's doing wrong so he can fix it.”

“Yeah, I'm sure he was taking notes. Let's get home.”

“Shall I write him a letter for next week?”

“If you want.”

They walk home quietly for a few minutes until John breaks the silence.

“Can I see your gay underwear sometime then?”

“If you want. Here.” Sherlock drops his trousers right there in the middle of the thankfully deserted street.

John peers blearily down at the tight grey boxers covering a very prominent bulge that seems to be growing the more he looks at it, “They look just like my pants.” He drops to his knees to get a closer look, “Hey, hold on, those ARE my pants.” He tips his head up to squint accusingly at his friend.

“Oh. Yeah. I, um, well, yes. Um. Yes. Wearing your boyfriend's pants is very gay.”

John nods, then realises the flaw in that logic. “I'm not your boyfriend though.”

“Yes you are.”

“No. No I'm not. I'm really not.”

Sherlock, becoming surprisingly rhapsodic, replies, “Yes. You’re my world, my love, the one I live for. Even if you don't want me to be your boyfriend, you’re mine, the only one I ever want.”

John feels suddenly stone cold sober, something inside swells. He has to close his eyes and grit his teeth because it feels too big, too large and he needs to keep it in. Those words, from his best friend, the man he has long acknowledged privately as a beautiful and mesmerising man who has taken over almost every corner of his life. Then it clicks. He _doesn’t_ have to keep it inside. He opens his eyes and looks up with fresh eyes at the man before him.

He is perfect. Physically he is lithe, athletic and strong and those eyes and the cheekbones that he has been admiring ever since the first day they met. Then there is the fact that try as he might John would do anything, anything at all for this man. He would crawl over broken glass to save him, he would follow him into the most dangerous situation imaginable to protect him, he would put up with sleepless nights if Sherlock needed him. This is love. What else explains the connection they share, what else explains why at the slightest indication Sherlock needs him he drops any date, any friends, work, or social obligation, to follow him. This is the love of his life, swaying drunkenly on the pavement with his trousers around his ankles, a very impressive erection tenting his pants, and looking down at him with a sad expression on his face.

John gently tugs the trousers up, careful to tuck Sherlock safely inside them and then stands to look Sherlock in the eye.

“You’re drunk, and ridiculous, and I love you. I love you totally, completely, and I’m taking you home and making you take painkillers, drink water and then I'm putting you to bed. I love you.”

Sherlock has tears running down his cheeks. “But you said..”

“Since when did you listen to me. I'm an idiot.”

“John.” Sherlock steps forward and tries to lean in for a kiss, but his sense of balance fails and he stumbles, resulting in the two of them landing in a heap with Sherlock mostly on top of John.

They lay perfectly still for a second, then John wraps his arms around Sherlock and chuckles, giggles, then guffaws, with sheer joy. He kisses Sherlock's cheek, then they share a breathless moment when their eyes meet. There is a chaste, gentle kiss, a mere brushing of lips, then a slightly more passionate one with gentle exploration, their tongues softly caressing lips and just as they are about to become bolder they are interrupted.

“Come on lads, take it home now.”

John peers up and behind him to see a police car idling at the curb next to them with the driver leaning out of his window to look down at them. He breaks into a broad grin and starts the process of getting up, complicated somewhat by Sherlock's complete lack of co-ordination.

“Sorry officer, we had a bit too much fun at the pub.” 

The officer continues to watch as John tries to haul Sherlock to his feet, but his legs give out and they end up in a heap again.

“I don’t want to have to take you in, but you can't stay here.” The policeman says firmly.

“No no. I'll just, here, I'll call a cab.” John pulls his phone out with a flourish to demonstrate his intentions and begins tapping at the screen with his tongue sticking out in concentration. Meanwhile Sherlock is clinging to him like a possessive octopus and whispering “I love you.” Over and over again.

The policeman rolls his eyes “I'll be back in five minutes, if you two are still here I'll have to take you in.”

John hums vaguely in response while trying to find a number for a cab on his phone and the car pulls away.

A phone call, a struggle to shift a lanky detective with no sense of co-ordination up into a cab, and a conversation reassuring the cabbie that any damage to his upholstery will be paid for, and they are on their way back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock is in the middle seat leaning heavily against John while John holds his hand and stares at their entwined fingers in amazement. He never thought getting Sherlock drunk on tequila and half price peach schnapps would lead to this, but he couldn’t be happier. He is going to take care of Sherlock, nurse him through the inevitable grumpy hangover in the morning, and then take him out for dinner. 

John begins daydreaming possible scenarios for after dinner, some beautifully poetic and fairytale and others rather more X-rated when Sherlock is suddenly explosively sick over both of them and the cab. The cabbie swears loudly but John ignores him to check on Sherlock who is looking up at him with bleary eyes and a smile.

John asks gently, “Feel better?”

Sherlock nods, then rests his head back on John's shoulder and falls asleep, leaving John to negotiate prices for cab cleaning and to mentally add washing vomit out of Sherlock's hair and a trip to the dry cleaners to his to do list. Tomorrow is looking busy, and John can't wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading you lovely people :-D


End file.
